he hears music surging over the tiles, wild and swaying, music that he thinks must be the whispers Van Gogh heard in the cypresses he painted over and over again.

and blinks a few times, trying to clear the cloudiness from his eyes.
Where am I?
He registers three things. One, he is cold and wet. Two, he is lying on his right side, slightly curled. Three, somewhere on his left side hangs a towel.

He reaches. Struggling to triangulate, he is drowsily frustrated that his hand has not made contact. The milky mist in his eyes do not clear.
Finally, he pulls it down and flops it limply over his shoulders.

Focusing slightly, he observes his immediate surroundings. Blue tile beneath him. Blue tile beside him. Enclosed in blue tile, in what seems to be a shower room - minus the shower heads.

What is this place?

He tries to recall something of value, something that will clue him in to this alien experience. But before he can begin to concentrate, -

He shivers.